


All His Time in Arda

by fish_in_fridge



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Maglor doesn't really make much into this story, Mother-Son Relationship, Multiple Ages (as is my wont), when I tag his name I am actually referring to his music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-03 10:08:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2847167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fish_in_fridge/pseuds/fish_in_fridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every now and then, Elrond caught a piece of stray music singing softly in his mind, and knew what it signified.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This short story, first written in Chinese almost half a year ago, is up to now my only piece of Silmarillion fanfiction that I am actually proud of; that’s why I now have the courage to translate it and present it to this archive.
> 
> Disclaimer: Arda and all its residents belong to Prof. Tolkien

**There is some music in Arda that is not sung to an audience, nor written to be recorded and performed. It addresses Arda, and shall last till the end of Arda.**

**Elrond learned it only later in his life.**

* * *

 

 

**I.**

When he was but a child, Elrond never took seriously the melodies he heard from time to time. They were just part of the place he lived in which he grudgingly called a shelter. They were just sounds, rising and falling at none too perfect paces, nothing to be compared with the lively splash of waves that entertained his keen ears in during his early childhood, which he sorely missed. Even Maglor, the one who did all the humming of nothingness all the time and occasionally sung a bit something worthy of his ears,(or so Elrond thought,) was never able to reproduce the songs of the shore.

Elrond didn’t expect he should miss that “nothing special” as much as he had missed the waves when he again took shelter close to the sea.

He was to be sent to the Isle of Balar, the singer explained, because it would make a better shelter for the young in these trying years. Elros tried to dispute that, but could not make it through, because there was no question that could be raised by the boys that Maglor had not thought of before hand, and because the few summers Elros had lived were far from sufficient in teaching him the art of reasoning that matched Maglor’s, and most importantly, it had always been impossible to dissuade Maglor, and Maedhros as well, from a long-pondered-over decision such as this one. Therefore while Maglor explained and Elros anxiously tried to interject, Elrond just remained seated in silence. And in the end, it was Elrond who took the precedence in signing the letter Maglor provided him, which was to be sealed and sent to Gil-galad the High King, and Elros followed the suit.

The following month the boys packed and prepared their journey, and bade farewell to their foster-father. On the eve of the leave-taking, Maglor looked sadder and thinner than he already was, and he didn’t sing for the feast of parting. Elrond didn’t know if he wished to hear his voice that evening.

But soon enough, he began to miss it, when he found how awfully dull the evenings without Maglor’s music could actually be. So terribly dull that not even the merry-making of the folk of Balar, nor his twin brother’s chattering, could really bring his spirit up. He missed Maglor’s songs so much that they were brought back to the surface of his mind, taking a clearer shape than they ever had. When the songs became so many that Elrond found the space of his mind too crowded, he eventually took up a quill and tried to trace some of them down to a sheet.

It was no easy job. Because what Elrond remembered as Maglor’s songs never took the form of complete songs. They were mostly a split episode of humming, or a surge of tunes, or a prolonged repetition of just two or three notes, that arose and ebbed, or broke and shattered in the middle, but never really fell to utter silence. One might want to question whether these should be called music, but for Elrond music was the only name they could take, as long as they were coming in Maglor’s golden voice which gave musicality to them. But to write them down was challenging, especially for one who had no idea how to put them together, one who had not even heard all of them. Elrond hadn’t heard all of them, and he had to take the pains to imagine what those unheard notes should sound like. Elrond only later realized that no one had heard the entirety of Maglor’s improvisation, save Maglor himself.

Not even the words were easy to retrieve. It struck Elrond hard when he found how illusory Maglor’s lyrics could be, for those words seldom rhymed, and the phrasing often replaceable, and the meters were hardly attuned, and the stanzas never came to a same length. What had sounded surprisingly right at Maglor’s lips, landed onto Elrond’s parchment in a mess. The only ones he could confidently remember with accuracy were the songs that were also sung here on Balar, which remembered the happier old times, and which failed to return the touch of the profound sorrows and strength in Maglor’s quiet whispers that Elrond now vividly relived.

Yet Elrond laboured on. He didn’t know why he wanted to take this effort, or if he really wanted to transcribe his foster-father’s works. Nor was he certain if he would ever need them. He never sang them nor did he play them, for he knew very well he was not the right person to represent them. He just sat at his open window whenever he could be spared, writing, maybe only to keep himself busy.

When Elrond was called away from his quarters, the seaside breeze would take the liberty to play with those unfinished sheets left on the desk, and bring their contents into the sight of other Elves. They were copied, spread, distributed, and eventually were brought across the Sundering Sea by the host of Finarfin to the libraries of Tirion, where they were filed and shelved, but scarcely visited.

Those few who actually had the need to touch them more often than not ended up frowning or sighing. They deemed the compositions crude, casual, and in want of melodic elegance. “Why should such things ever be written? They are not even beautiful...”

 _Because they are simply not meant to be beautiful_ , pondered young Elrond at his desk in his new office in Forlond, unknown to the scholarly minstrels of Tirion.

_Yet they tell what true beauty is._


	2. Chapter 2

**II.**

Elrond mused at the unpacked parchment laid unfolded on his near empty desk. It was a transcription of the last piece of music he had heard in his head, before he headed to Mithlond, to a white swan-ship, to the Immortal West.

For the past two Ages, such transcription never really came to a halt, even though the labour of it was often paused from time to time. When it was resumed, it often happened on a faithful, calm moment of twilight, when clouds were sparse, and stars vaguely outshone the moon. All in a sudden, a burst of music had come to his consciousness like a gust of west-blowing wind, or an impulse, and, as if on cue, Elrond hastened to his desk or a slate or a writing pad at the first note of it, writing down to whatever sheet coming to his hand what he had heard in case it should fall into nothingness as suddenly as it rose. Even though, with his Elvish memory, Elrond Peredhel didn’t really need to worry about that.

As soon as he caught the first pitch of the unexpected songs Elrond knew who the composer was, and that he must have heard them long before, played and sung by that minstrel right in his presence. The curious thing was that they sounded both familiar and new to Elrond, and Elrond could swear that before they resurfaced to his mind he definitely had no memory of anything of their likeness.

The intervals between two transcribing nights were usually long, and grew longer as time slowly went on. Memories of ancient songs didn’t came to bother him when he gladly married his beloved silver maiden, and contented himself to the gentle voice of his sweet wife, and cheery clamour of his gleeful children.

They came back when such bliss came to a sudden halt, when he lost his lady wife to a wound he could not fully cure with his own power, to a healing land his duty yet prevented him from going. It was on the night he returned to Imladris that he heard once again a faint memory of some old songs whispering softly to his ears. The singing well lasted the whole night, and Elrond made pages of scripts out of it.

Thus to his foster-son alone re-emerged the voice of the forgotten singer, soothing the Half-elf’s weary soul with its unique graveness. Most recently it fell on the eve of his daughter’s wedding. Arwen Undomiel was his father’s shining jewel, his star, and it was such bittersweet to see her walk into a bliss enlarged yet shortened by her own choice. The songs he heard reflected Elrond’s state of mind, yet sounded to him more brisk and joyous than what he usually heard before.

It occurred to him that they were singing of letting go.

And that should be the course of his following years: to let go his burden, his sadness, his last connection to the Mortal land; to seek bless from the true Elven-home. The running years really wearied him profoundly, which he only came to realize when the ring Vilya no longer sustained him.

The date of departure was set. And he for one last time walked through the Last Homely House he built in the times of grave need, feeling with his each footstep the realm that had came dear to him. Soon enough the merry songs of Elvenkind would be no longer heard in this jolly valley, and the glory of Imladris should fade. Before that happened, Elrond wanted to kiss it goodbye.

And quietly and remotely came the soft humming of his foster-father, which rose to a song of peace and composure where the might of great mind lay. Elrond hearkened to it, paused his pacing, and didn’t hasten to transcribe it till the song came naturally to a full stop, and he relived each and every note and word of it in his own mind as he stood motionless in his garden. Once again he wondered where the bard fared now and voiced his concern to the wind. Once again, no answer reached him.

After he finally made what he heard into a score, he gazed long into it, stroking the sheet with respectful love. Transcription turned wearier than he thought when he began it in his youth, but Elrond never regretted it, for he knew the worth of it.

Elrond rolled the parchment into a scroll, capsuled it, and packed it with other silver containers of similar shape and decoration. Given the huge amount of them they carried a surprising light weight as luggage. But it should not be surprising, for weight came not with parchment, ink or capsules, but with the singer and his mighty music.

And his music was far from reaching its finale.


	3. Chapter 3

**III.**

Elrond made out the Lady Nerdanel from a great distance, as was usually beyond a peredhel’s capability. Not merely by her unique auburn hair, whose likeness he had only seen streaming down Maedhros’ head. But, more importantly, by her collected composure, and a good amount of weariness half revealed by her sunk body frame, which vividly recalled his last memory of Maglor, to such a degree that her second-born son’s name nearly escaped his throat on spot.

Most of their meetings took place in the Noldorin Palace of Tirion, which were few and formal. Lady Nerdanel came regularly to the King’s aid when Arafinwë was in need of her wisdom, and her counsel was always highly valued and well applied by her law-brother: Arafinwë trusted her; so did his people. Even during the time of the Rebellion, her stance and her act were impeccable to the eyes of all Amanian residents, and harsh blames didn’t reach her in its aftermath, despite all the woe of the encircling Darkness that had to do to people’s mind. But Nerdanel would offer little more than what Arafinwë asked; her remaining her status and her good name was a marvelous feat, but one that brought her little true happiness.

Now, as Elrond stood at the door of Mahtan’s country house, he pondered what millennia of solitude could do to a soul. Yes, it affected her gravely, even as she tried to cope with her weariness by her steadfastness. Something that her sons had been doing: Elrond remembered all too clearly the inner struggles that Maglor had tried to hide under his pale, seemingly blank complexion as he sang an eerie song, and the fire of ashy craze in Meadhros’ eyes burning against his steel-calm face. Elrond had ever been at a loss when he saw the Fëanorians as such, and so he now was, at the door of Mahtan’s country house, greeted by a civil, worn Nerdanel.

It was almost impossible to imagine what a life this Nis had been leading, suffering the prolonged loss of all her sons while others’ children gradually returned to their parents: Findaráto, Arakáno, Angaráto, and lately Artanis, the Lady Galadriel that Elrond was familiar with. Nerdanel never mentioned or even hinted it, yet Elrond could somehow empathize it: the perpetualized separation from his twin brother was his forever heartache, the centuries without his beloved Celebrian enough to cast a shadow on the usual mirth of the Imladris household, and the choice of Arwen his daughter, even as he well understood the reason behind it, was still a loss that the Blessed Realm could not make up for him... Yet understanding didn’t guarantee a smooth conversation starter, and Elrond had hardly any idea of what to say after the greeting, even as he knew the reason of his visit.

He was led into the house, where shelves decorated each and every room and corridor, and the works of the landlord’s daughter adorned their decks, unfinished pieces outnumbering completed ones. Nerdanel’s carving and sculptures still took her signature lifelikeness: each bird might spread their wings and take flight at any moment, and each beast ready to leap or gallop and bark or howl, despite their lack of an ear, a beak or a limb, while a miniature tower put together by commonplace pebbles could easily match the grandeur of the white tower of Ingwë without a silver lantern giving light to it. Some of the in-progress works seemed to be on hiatus for scores of yéni, collecting diamond dust in their intricate folds, yet not removed from the sight of any visitors.

Tentatively, Elrond reached out for a half-sculpted hound whose smart liveliness interested him particularly. It could be meant for a round sculpture, but to this date it was but a relief against a rough background of sandstone, only its head bearing detailed fur of which indicated its scull, muscles and veins. Its eyes, one of which hardly more than a dent in the stone, stared intelligently at its beholder with almost a light of its own.

“That is Huan,” smiled Nerdanel neither encouragingly nor discouragingly, “The hound gifted to my son Tyelcormo by the Vala Oromë; I have heard of his legendary feats much commemorated across the sea; feats that outshine any committed by my own sons. A true master hound he was.”

“But this statuette is unfinished, like many other of your works,” said Elrond.

“I’d pause my craft when I lose my heart in it, and pick it up again when such enthusiasm returns. I can’t make me into doing that which goes against my heart, and what now really brings me inspiration and guides my hands, I can not tell,” answered the sculptress, caressing her stone hound with a languid fondness in her touch. It could have been something she was really proud of, even in its unfinished form.

Or exactly in its unfinished form.

Elrond mused at these words, remembering the one who had expressed a similar idea, in songs, not in plain speech, though. And the though of that Elf brought him back to his errand.

“I beg your pardon, my lady, for I am a poorly-made messenger who delays the message. Here is what brings me on this journey to your abode, that which should have been passed to you long before.” As he said, Elrond withdrew a silver capsule from his robe pocket.

In the middle of the capsule was fastened a fine dark red ribbon bearing a tinge of metallic hue. A perfect match of Nerdanel’s hair colour, which Elrond had noticed to be slightly duller than that of Maedhros. And he took much labour to find the right ribbon, for he felt he had to.

Resting in the capsule was a score bearing an ethereal piece of music, a tune Maglor had crooned as he, on a very real occasion, broached the topic about his earliest enjoyment of watching his mother crafting a toy instrument for him. The soft tune later revisited Elrond without revealing the story behind it at first, and when Elrond remembered, he decided what he had to do without consciously making a decision.

Nerdanel took the content out of its container, and without a word she unfolded the parchment. As she read it - browsing through it rapidly at first, followed with careful, concerned glances back and forth, before another thorough, slower read at the full text. During her reading she didn’t blink, didn’t frown, didn’t speak and didn’t sing. There was intensity in her gaze that Elrond could not put any word he knew to its description.

At length the composer’s mother put the piece down. “Another unfinished work,” she remarked.

Elrond had to agree. He intended to nod at her remark, yet as he inclined his head, he found him unable to pull it up again. That was all he could brought her: a broken piece of tune in the handwriting of a nobody to her. Not the voice to sing it and not the harp to accompany that golden voice. Not even the latest news about the one who possessed such a voice and such harping skills. Nothing to relieve her, or him. Suddenly his inability daunted him and grieved him.

Nerdanel seemed to understand his thinking, as though she had probed into his waking mind without his knowing it. “A work in progress, I shall say,” said the lady softly.

Elrond looked up, meeting her eyes, and saw something almost like a smile in them. Almost.

“A work in progress, for my heart tells me that Makalaurë intends to see it completed. This is no stray piece, but an inseparable part to be incorporated into a grander theme he has in mind. He will take whatever time to ponder at it, to refine it, and to add new melodies to it. I think I know Makalaurë well enough to understand that, if he believes his composition is worthy of all his time in Arda, he’d give it without any grudge.”

Her voice is calm, and genuinely so, as though the Makalaurë she spoke of were actually sitting in the library of this country house pondering at a deck of scores, whom she could call at at any moment but chose not to disrupt in the middle of his work...

It made sense to Elrond. Such was the Maglor he knew. But, all his time in Arda? Elrond knew well of the plights on the other side of the Sundering Sea, the most profound one being a weariness insinuating into the soul of an Elda, which none could really resist.And now Maglor would keep wandering the shores of a Dying Land in the shadow of what he once was? That was...

“Too costly a price...” murmured Elrond.

Gravely, Nerdanel shook her head. Her voice remained steady and calm as she tried to explain,

“Indeed, and what lies behind such an idea will never cease grieving me. But, do trust me, my Lord Elrond. If Makalaurë really deems a work as deserving all that his heart and soul can offer, he’d offer them without reluctance, and without hesitation. He’d be very careful and prudent in making his judgment, for his way of thinking when unswayed by that of another. Yet after his judgment, the right judgment, was made, Makalaurë’s devotion to his cause could be greater than Fëanáro’s to his forge...”

These were difficult conclusions to reach, difficult words to utter, for any mother of flesh and soul. Yet Nerdanel could not deny her son his choice. Now she was just grateful to having the opportunity to get to know the heart of Makalaurë once again.

And for Elrond, his visions were suddenly filled with distant images as Nerdanel spoke. In his mind’s eye he saw a lead-grey sea edges by silver roaring waves, rushing into splashes after splashes against a dented line of boulders sparsely covered by seaweed. Erect atop one of the boulders was a dim figure in the shape of a slim Elf. Steadfastly the Elf gazed across the sea with his grey eyes ablaze. His lips parted and met as if he was singing... which he indeed was, even though the sound of music was lost to Elrond’s ears.

But Elrond knew the music to be there, and that it would last.

* * *

 

**For there is some music in Arda that is not sung to an audience, nor written to be recorded and performed. It addresses Arda, and shall last till the end of Arda.**

**And when it words ripe into their fullest, and its tune reaches its climax, all shall hear it and find true beauty in it.**

 

~finis~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> List for Quenya names in Chapter III:  
> Arafinwë -- Finarfin  
> Findaráto -- Finrod  
> Arakáno -- Argon  
> Angaráto -- Angrod  
> Artanis -- Galadriel  
> Tyelcormo -- Celegorm  
> Makalaurë -- Maglor  
> Fëanáro -- Fëanor
> 
> In my headcanon, even in Aman Elrond clings to Sindarin form of his name instead of its Quenya equivalent. Also, he keeps referring to Maedhros and Maglor in the Sindarin forms. I believe these are the names Elrond makes best connection to the persons he knows. Therefore the Sindarin forms are used in Elrond’s narration in Chapter III, while Nerdanel uses the Quenya mother-names for her sons.
> 
>  
> 
> \-----------------------------------------------------------------  
> Thanks for reading! And very (belated) special thank-you's to all my commenters and those who have left me kudos! You really made my day!


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